_Young Lo_. Come Sir, what dare you give? _Sav_. You will not sell Sir? _Young Lo_. Who told you so Sir? _Sav_. Good Sir have a care. _Young Lo_. Peace, or I'le tack your Tongue up to your Roof. What money? speak. _More_. Six thousand pound Sir. _Capt_. Take it, h'as overbidden by the Sun: bind him to his bargain quickly. _Young Lo_. Come strike me luck with earnest, and draw the writings. _More_. There's a Gods peny for thee. _Sav_. Sir for my old Masters sake let my Farm be excepted, if I become his Tenant I am undone, my Children beggers, and my Wife God knows what: consider me dear Sir. _More_. I'le have all or none. _Young Lo_. All in, all in: dispatch the writings. [_Exit with Com._ _Wid_. Go, thou art a pretty forehanded fellow, would thou wert wiser. _Sav_. Now do I sensibly begin to feel my self a Rascal; would I could teach a School, or beg, or lye well, I am utterly undone; now he that taught thee to deceive and cousen, take thee to his mercy; so be it. [_Exit_ Savil. _More_. Come Widow come, never stand upon a Knight-hood, 'tis a meer paper honour, and not proof enough for a Serjeant. Come, Come, I'le make thee-- _Wid_. To answer in short, 'tis this Sir. No Knight no Widow, if you make me any thing, it must be a Lady, and so I take my leave. _More_. Farewel sweet Widow, and think of it. _Wid_. Sir, I do more than think of it, it makes me dream Sir. [_Ex._ Wid. _More_. She's rich and sober, if this itch were from her: and say I be at the charge to pay the Footmen, and the Trumpets, I and the Horsemen too, and be a Knight, and she refuse me then; then am I hoist into the subsidy, and so by consequence should prove a Coxcomb: I'le have a care of that. Six thousand pound, and then the Land is mine, there's some refreshing yet. [_Exit._ _Actus Tertius. Scena Prima_. _Enter_ Abigal, _and drops her Glove._ _Abigal_. If he but follow me, as all my hopes tell me, he's man enough, up goes my rest, and I know I shall draw him. _Enter_ Welford. _Wel_. This is the strangest pampered piece of flesh towards fifty, that ever frailty copt withal, what a trim _lennoy_ here she has put upon me; these women are a proud kind of Cattel, and love this whorson doing so directly, that they will not stick to make their very skins Bawdes to their flesh. Here's Dogskin and Storax sufficient to kill a Hawk: what to do with it, besides nailing it up amongst _Irish_ heads of Teere, to shew the mightiness of her Palm, I know not: there she is. I must enter into Dialogue. Lady you have lost your Glove. _Abig_. Not Sir, if you have found it. _Wel_. It was my meaning Lady to restore it. _Abig_. 'Twill be uncivil in me to take back a favour, Fortune hath so well bestowed Sir, pray wear it for me.